Genma knew Hayate would be pissed, but that hardly mattered. The kid would get over it. Hayate had a thing about being surprised, especially in his own house, but he could never stay mad at Genma, and Genma knew it and took as much advantage as possible of that fact. Right now, he lay stretched across Hayate’s futon, freshly showered and wearing nothing but a pair of pants. The kid was due back from a mission sometime in the next couple of hours, and he was going to be tired, dirty, and possibly bloody — the last thing he’d expect was Genma to be waiting for him.

Hayate didn’t give a shit who was waiting for him. He wanted to sleep. He just wanted to take off his filthy, blood-stiffened clothes and fall into bed. The shower could wait for tomorrow, and so could the mission report. All that mattered was that he was back in the village and he could finally sleep again. He stumbled into his room, sword still slung across his back, and flopped onto the futon, which was a lot warmer and lumpier than he remembered it being.

"Give me one reason not to kill you," he demanded, not even opening his eyes.

"Just one? That’s a little rough. I don’t suppose ‘because you love me’ is going to cut it, this time," Genma teased from beneath Hayate’s limp body. "How about ‘because you won’t have anyone to strip you down, wash you, and tuck you into bed after a long massage’."

"As long as I’m still alive, I think you’re forgiven." Genma carefully pulled himself out from under Hayate and took the kid’s sword in both hands. "Sword first. Can you move your arm?"

With a dull grunt of affirmation, Hayate did so, and Genma untangled him from the sword, setting it beside the bed, where it belonged. He rolled onto his back and reached out for Genma. "Come here. I missed you."

Genma stretched himself out over Hayate, his damp skin picking up smears of the bloody mud that covered the thin shinobi, beneath him. "You look like death, love."

"You should see the other guy," Hayate muttered with a thin smile. "You’re getting all dirty." He smacked a hand into Genma’s chest, leaving a near perfect red-brown handprint.

"I’d like to get dirtier, if you’re up for it," Genma laughed, rubbing his cheek against Hayate’s.

Genma writhed atop Hayate with a teasing smirk. "I dunno, I think this seems perfectly useful to me." He paused, and the usual dead-eyed look returned. "Oh, you meant useful to you." Genma sat up and started to unfasten Hayate’s clothes, carefully peeling the kid out of one layer at a time. Hayate helped when he could and lay still when he couldn’t, shivering slightly, as more of his skin was exposed to the air. Always warm, Genma pulled Hayate close, letting the heat from his bare chest seep into his lover’s chilly skin.

"You’ve got lines." Genma traced the sharp distinction between the mud and the somewhat cleaner skin that marked the edge of where Hayate’s shirt had sat against the skin of his neck. Hayate grumbled quietly and curled up closer against Genma’s warm body. In a thoroughly improbable violation of the laws of physics, Genma poured himself to his feet, without dropping Hayate, and began to walk toward the bath.

"Put me down! I can walk, dammit," Hayate complained, more out of habit than any desire to walk.

"Bastard," Hayate snarled, with no real heat, resting his face against Genma’s shoulder.

"Fatherless as I’ve ever been," Genma replied, warmly, kissing Hayate’s cheek as he opened the bathroom door with his foot. After closing the door behind them, Genma set one foot on the edge of the bathtub, balancing Hayate against his leg and one arm as he leaned over to turn on the water. Hayate’s grip tightened on his shoulders.

"What are you doing!?" Hayate protested, as he developed a sudden fear of falling.

"Calm down or I will drop you. I’m not putting you down on cold porcelain. Let the water run a while." Genma remained perfectly calm, his grip as yet unshaken. As the bath filled, he took Hayate back into both his arms, kissing the horrific scar that spread across his lover’s chest. "Didn’t I promise I’d never let you get cold again?"

And that was when Hayate hauled off and punched him in the face. Genma staggered back, reflexively channelling chakra to keep from dropping Hayate. It was a close hit, just a rabbit punch, but Genma’s nose had been broken so many times that it didn’t take much to re-open the fracture, these days. He turned his face away as the blood drizzled onto Hayate’s chest.

Genma just closed his eyes and said nothing at all. He knew he couldn’t promise that. Instead he just held Hayate as close to him as he could and listened to the water running. The fear of losing Hayate slowly settled into an icy pearl in the depths of his chest. Just another point of contention. Just another wound that would never heal.

Opening his eyes after a few minutes, Genma silently stepped into the bath and sat, cautiously lowering Hayate into the water before reaching over him to turn off the tap. Without a word, he reached for the soap — his soap, not Hayate’s — and began to wash the blood and filth from his lover’s body.

"Genma, dammit, your pants." Hayate finally noticed that Genma still wore a single article of clothing, and squirmed to try to turn around as he protested this oversight.

"No," Genma replied, calmly, holding Hayate in place. "You’re cold and tired. I don’t need the distraction." He rested his head on Hayate’s shoulder and purred into the little swordsman’s ear. "And your naked body between my legs is distracting enough without the feel of skin on skin."

Hayate groaned softly and leaned back against Genma, wrapping one arm back around his lover’s neck. "I missed you and all your dirty tricks."

Genma rubbed his soapy hands down the lines of Hayate’s too-thin body, carefully washing away every trace of the mission — the mud, the blood, the smell of other people’s deaths. Hayate smelled enough like his own death, although Genma made fewer jokes about that than he once did. Somehow, the jokes had stopped being funny during the long nights he’d spent holding Hayate’s hand, waiting for the kid’s eyes to open, again — hoping that Hayate would wake long enough to know he was there, if nothing more. Rinsing the soap from Hayate’s neck, he buried his face against the skin, there, and breathed deeply. Nothing mattered more than the fact that Hayate was still alive to smell like he was dying.

"Shut. Up," Hayate snapped, squirming to press more of himself against Genma’s talented hands. "I told you not to talk about that."

"And here I was going to say you almost left me for good — for that ANBU girl. Aren’t you glad you came back?" Genma’s fingers traced soapy lines up Hayate’s inner thighs, and the bone-thin tokujou writhed in his hands, groaning.

"Bastard." Hayate shuddered and coughed, reaching behind himself to open Genma’s pants.

"Born and bred," Genma confirmed, catching Hayate’s fingers firmly. "I already told you no. I might be convinced otherwise if you can stand long enough to shower the last of the slag off yourself — and off of me."

"You —" Hayate began to cough, again, and Genma held him, carefully.

"— are sooo mean," Genma finished. "I’m not taking my pants off until they rinse clean."

Hayate carefully considered his options. "Tomorrow," he stated firmly.

Genma pulled the plug from the drain with his toe. "Damn right, tomorrow."

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Ywain Penbrydd writes mountains of crappy fic. These stories are now written here, where he has the ability to filter them for suck before releasing them into the wild. Occasionally, he also makes icons, banners, and other art-garbage.

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